Explicit
by Swiper. No swiping
Summary: It keeps happening.
1. 1

**Sorry guys I kinda gleebed all over my harrbl. **  
**So this one's for you. **  
**And also for me, too. **

* * *

Our friendship is legendary.

He's been with me as far back as I care to remember these days.

He's been there for me, and I've been there for him.

He owes me so much but I'd never think of asking him for anything back.

When I found him he was a mess. He needed help. He had the talent to fly with the best but also the talent to sabotage himself and tell himself it wasn't worth it. That he'd never get out of the inner city, that he'd never get out of the gangs. And I got him out of there. I got him into college with me.

The only thing I ever asked him in return was for him to fly with me. He's one of the best pilots that's out there.

Our friendship is stronger than most people can manage. It's been put to the test many times. When Dad died. When the war started. When I needed him to help me, and though he did it and pretended to hate it, as long as he got to spend time with me he'd do anything.

So why not put our friendship to the test with my fat cock stuffed down his throat.

He's gurgling, gagging on it. Trying to reject me. Well, I can't apologize for my size, Falco. That's God's gift to all the men and women in my life. One thing I can do is hit him on the side of the head with the pistol I'm holding. "Breathe in through your nostrils you faggot," is my advice to him. God. It's like he's never sucked a dick before.

"Ggrggrgmhhgh," he says. Use the boost to get through the gag reflex, I think that's what he meant by that, so that's exactly what I do. Defying all odds he doesn't throw up all over me, which is good because that's something I'm not into.

Not yet, anyway.

I know what the kiddies want these days, and what they want is my big fat dick. I didn't have one until they gave me one, anyway. Kind of like when God took Adam's rib and turned it into a woman. Somebody ripped out my character and gave me a constant boner.

I want to make this as erotic as I possibly can for you. Because you're watching me. You're watching me as I do this.

The apartment is dark. Rain is beating on the windows, and my pants are around my ankles. Along with my lucky briefs, the ones with the little foxes on them. They're stained with semen, obviously. Falco is on his knees with my huge dick stuffed in his throat. His tears making my panties even more wet, literally.

Right now you're watching me face rape my best friend at gunpoint. Hot, right?

Why the pistol? Well have you ever had your penis trapped in a clamped-down beak? Probably doesn't feel too good.

Lightning flashes and thunder crashes outside. In that order. Timing perfectly with my orgasm, because in this world everything is timed up perfectly. I don't enjoy it too much. It's not a very memorable orgasm. Some of them just aren't as good as other ones, you know what I mean?

Falco screams a muffled scream. He can feel my load slipping down his throat. I push him backwards, and he vomits all over his apartment floor. Hot stomach acid spilling out of him. Somewhere in it all are little Fox McClouds, waiting to fertilize but burning to death. The thought makes me chuckle.

I didn't enjoy this, but I did this for your sake. Because I know what you want, and you want to see me fuck my best friend. The sad truth is, sex isn't something that's enjoyable every time. Sometimes you just push in and pull out a few times and it's already over, and both of you feel disappointed because you barely felt anything at all. That's just how it works. Sometimes you don't even get that far.

Maybe next time will be better, you think to yourself. Maybe my next time will be better. But most of the time it isn't.

He keeps throwing up all over himself. I can't imagine that would feel too good, especially since I just fucked his throat raw.

Pull up my pants. Semen and cunt juice is one thing, but stomach acid isn't something I can wear proudly.

"Easy does it, Falco." I point the gun at him. "I wonder if I should kill you now," I'm kind of thinking aloud here. "Do you think that somebody out there would get off to it? Should I wait until later? Maybe drown you or suffocate you with latex? I forget what the new thing is."

He doesn't speak. Attempts to raise one hand towards me. Trying to grab me. His hand is shaking.

"Hey, I think we should wait a bit before we give it a second round, buddy. No offense, but you really sucked. Pun intended."

"F-" he starts to say something but I really don't care.

Wag the gun at him like it's a judging finger. "There's no reason you can't practice. When you're feeling better, I mean. Don't worry. I'll be back for more of your hot avian mouth, lover." Tone as dry as a summer in Stockton. I know what the kiddies want. Real emotion, real dialogue.

Lightning flashes again and I can see that he's still crying. "F-fuck you, McCloud," he finally forces out.

In response I zip up my fly. Redo my belt buckle. Pull up my socks and lace up my shoes. I could say something half-witty about fucking and who's fucking who but anybody with half a wit could do that.

"I'm going to kill you," he says, trying to get up but falling down again in his own vomit. The effect is slapstick. I throw him a laugh for reassurance.

I walk to the door. "Gonna leave now, baby. Thanks for the blowjob. Toodles."

All he shouts at me is: "I-I'm going to kill you, you fucking faggot I'm going to kill you–"

Maybe he feels that way now. But in a few days or so, he's going to give me a call, telling me that he misses me. Crying and telling me that he loves me, that he wants to be with me all the time now, and he's so glad I face-fucked him into submission. That's exactly what I did, face-fucked him into submission. It's not up to him, and it's not up to me, either. The sad truth is that he doesn't have a choice. It's all up to you. It's all for the kids. It's what they want to see.

We were friends once, him and I. We had a friendship that seemed like nothing could break it, until for whatever reason I decided to rape him and now the next time I see him he's going to be wearing lingerie and acting like a lisping mincing queer. And we'll fuck. And after that all we'll ever do is fuck, because that's all that's left of ol' Falco.

So, in conclusion, I just raped my only friendship to death. I hope you're happy.


	2. 2

Quick cut to somewhere else.

Bar. Yes. Just started my first beer, and I'm already working on something in my head, gears just keep turning and turning. Alcohol is the oil that keeps the mechanism spinning.

Am I hard? Of course I'm hard. I'm harder than Thor's hammer. I have the ultimate Shiva lingam growing right between my legs. I am a fucking sperm faucet as far as things are concerned. All you need to do is turn my spigot, baby, and it comes right out.

On television is the Green Bay Packers playing the New England Patriots. And that's especially funny because neither of those places exist in the Lylat system. And while the names could be changed, transparently covered up and all, everybody would know what I was talking about anyway. It doesn't make a difference to me.

This world is not very extensive and could use a lot of room for improvement. For example, the bartender's pretty poorly rendered. Looks like somebody just took Peppy's head from 64 and recolored it before pasting it on a larger sprite, one that stands and wears a suit. All rough polygons. He doesn't speak, but he flaps his mouth open and shut a few times like he's trying to say something.

This is irrelevant, and doesn't serve to advance the plot at all. So let's advance the plot a little, shall we?

The music changes to something quiet and suitable for talking, so I know that this means Krystal's going to make an entrance for a quick talk. And by a quick talk I mean, well, you know what I mean.

And she does. Smoke parting around her like she's somebody I've never heard of named Moses parting some place I've never heard of named the Red Sea. Her entrance is dramatic, and supposed to increase her sex appeal. And sure, it works okay. She's pretty hot. She looks how she always looks. Why they decided to give her character enormous breasts and gratuitous amounts of natural make-up, I'll never be sure. It certainly started this series on a downward spiral that's been slowly getting worse, let me tell you.

Krystal leans on my shoulder and says to me in a sultry voice: "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

I get the feeling I'm supposed to blush and act all cute. I'm supposed to act shy until I suddenly get all bad-ass and start breaking skulls and reading Michael Jackson lyrics for this girl. Isn't that what you all want?

Unfortunately for you I have too big of a hardon tonight to act shy. "Hey baby," I lick my lips for added effect. "Why don't you plant that juicy rear of yours down on Santa's lap and tell me what you want stuffed in your stocking?"

That is a horrible pick up line, but I thought I might as well try it. It's impossible to be too horrible here. It's impossible to fuck this thing up.

"Fresh," she says like she doesn't care, sitting down on the barstool next to me. "Bartender, I'll have a Sex on the Beach, and also the drink, too."

By now we're all forcing laughs. That was unoriginal as all hell.

"Abab ab ababab abab ab," the bartender says to Krystal, flapping his trap.

And Krystal smiles, brushing one of her cheeks with her hand. "How flattering," she says.

I'm not sure what she heard in all that.

But she turns to me, changes the subject. "So what are you doing in this bar?"

"Drinking beer. What should I be doing?"

"I thought you were too much of a goody-goody to be slumming around in bars."

"Nah baby, that was the old me. When I actually had a personality and morals."

"So you drink now?"

"Yeah. Didn't you ever play Command?"

"No. I heard it was awful." The bartender comes back with her drink. Pink, rim covered in salt. A pussy with boogers.

He opens his mouth to speak, but just keeps on flapping it open and shut. Abab, ab ab ab.

"It was," I say, tipping the bottle up heavenwards and releasing a huge gush of beer into my mouth. "But we were all drinking in that. In several endings, at least. Maybe two or three, I didn't count."

"Huh. I figured you were going to say something like Didn't you ever play Command? That's why I drink now."

"That would've been more badass. But no, I'm just trying to salvage some shreds of my identity."

"Or at least come up with a cheap explanation as to why we all drink now," she says, smiling. She sips from hers, I sip from mine.

I clear my throat. "So that begs the question: what are you doing in a bar, Krystal?"

"Oh you know," she sighs. "I'm here to pick up some hot stud with exactly a ten-inch dick, no more, no less. We'll go to his place and he'll stick it in every orifice I have at least once. Maybe even once between my tits if he can muster the stamina, which he probably will. It'll take a practiced five hours and then we'll both orgasm like synchronized swimmers, hold each other until dawn, whispering to each other that we love each other, and at least three people reading about it from their computers will have finished into their socks by then. You know the drill."

"All too well."

"I assume. How's your dick been lately?"

"Fine, it's fine. Always hard now. I just raped Falco in the mouth."

"I see. How's Falco been lately? I haven't been keeping in touch with him, or anybody for that matter."

"Well, I just raped him in the mouth."

"Ah."

"Yeah, it was under a general consensus that we should have sex. Neither of us are homos, sure, but it's out of my control. You know how that is. So I went over to his place, one thing led to another and there I was, holding a gun to his head and spraying baby batter down his throat."

"Fascinating. What about Slippy and Peppy? How have they been?"

"They just haven't been the same, since they stopped existing."

"Oh no. That's too bad. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, the team's sort of drifted apart since most of the characters disappeared. I mean, you should know. You were there."

My maybe former girlfriend maybe current girlfriend maybe wife, depending on who you ask, well, she shakes her head from side to side. "I forget what canon we're all in sometimes. The bartender's head throwing me off. Is this 64 or post-Assault?"

"Isn't living in a video game series trying as hell? Quick: What's Wolf's accent again? British? Southern? Garbled retard speak?"

Krystal slams her drink down on the table and the glass shatters in a million pieces. Nobody cares. Nobody gets hurt. Living in a perfect world is great.

"You should really cool it on the metafiction, McCloud," she turns to me. "It's a really tired gimmick."

The sad truth is that this is all a tired gimmick. Grin at her. "So is drinking alcohol and swearing. But that doesn't stop us from doing it, does it?"

She eyes me with some expression I don't care to describe. "Well I'm out of lines. You wanna go fuck in the bathroom already?"

"Nah. Eating where I shit makes me nervous. Let's go back to your place."

We leave the bar, forgetting to pay the bartender, but the bartender doesn't care and neither do we. We never make it to her place. She forgets where she lives because it doesn't really exist, and I tell her not to worry about it and grab her hand and lead her into an alleyway near the bar. Push her up against a brick wall. She groans but I can only barely hear it over the sound of rushing traffic nearby. They might be able to see us, but who cares. Public sex is exciting. Public sex is dangerous, taboo. Public sex is something that everybody fantasizes about. My hand's around her neck but my grip is soft, feeling her throat move up and down as she swallows hard. Just to show her who's in charge. Somebody's always in charge. She starts peeling off her loin cloth. I rip off her leather bra. I guess she won't be wearing that home, but obviously this is supposed to be passionate. This is passionate. This is real passion. Now she's naked, and she's pulling me closer to her, undoing the buttons on my shirt. My mouth reaches hers. Lips meeting, opening. Tongues battling.

Then I unhinge my lower jaw and funnel her into my throat. Swallow and she's gone.

Dammit.

That was just uncalled for.

I guess I've been having gay sex for such a long time I've forgotten how to have sex with women, but I can't imagine that was the way it normally happens. I'll have to think harder about it. Get it? Think harder? About sex? No, you're right, that wasn't very good.

But most importantly, what I just ate is going to be hell coming out the other end.


	3. 3

So I start stuffing Krystal's clothes in the alleyway dumpster. Thinking to myself about Wolf. Trying to think about what accent he had last time I saw him. I am not sure why it keeps changing. I don't know if it's just me, because I think Krystal noticed it too. Except now she's digesting in my stomach so I can't ask her. Goddammit I'm such an idiot. Think, Fox, think.

Maybe if I shove her clothes far enough in the trash, nobody will ever find them. Then again, I can never be sure if anybody's going to come looking for Krystal. I don't really think she had much of a life. It's hard to make it in a world that doesn't care about you. Even in real life. I think she was supposed to be hated here. I mean, you don't hate her. But Corneria hates her. And that made her more sympathetic. Sorry I ate her, guys.

Anyway: Wolf. Wolf O'Donnell. I used to have lots of sex with him, actually, but only because I was being forced to. Fans did this to me. Lots of people kept asking me Hey, Fox, did something happen between you two in Assault? No, of course not. He saved my life, sure, but that's never a reason to turn gay. But he saved your life, they'd say. He obviously cares about you an awful lot.

Truth be told Wolf creeps me out. Before he rescued me, he'd follow me around trying to kill me. And that's actually really hard to forget, no matter what anybody tries to do to make it up to you.

But yeah, we were fucking. Or as close to fucking as we ever got. The sad truth is, Wolf isn't very well endowed. Sure he's hung, just not where it counts. His penis is thirty inches long, but only a millionth of an inch thick. Kinda like a giant flat geometric plane, and it's so thin you can only see it from certain angles or else it just looks like a near-invisible line. Some kind of medical condition, he said. Needless to say the whole inserting tab A into slot B didn't work out so good. I don't know how he takes a piss. Never watched. That's something I'm not into.

Not yet, anyway.

Anyway, that's when my cellphone rings. No, okay, it's really a comm. link. No, okay, it's really a cellphone, but everybody just tries to pretend that it isn't. This is supposed to be the future, baby. We're supposed to have hover cars and shit, right?

Caller ID reads Fara Phoenix. Which is pretty strange because not only have I deleted her from my contacts many times before this but also I could have sworn she stopped existing. Much less was ever in the video game series. I wonder what canon this is.

Pick up the call. "Hello?"

"Hey Fox. It's Fara. How have you been?"

She sounds relatively chipper for a deus ex machina. I guess that's what she's supposed to be. Look around the alleyway, feeling kind of nervous. "Well, yeah, I'm doing okay."

"Just okay?"

"Yeah. Just okay. Star Fox broke up a while back. Don't know if you heard." When the entire universe revolves around you, you're kind of a rockstar no matter what you do. Media finds you interesting. You become a household name and shit. I think that's a theme for a different story, though.

"Aw. No, I didn't. What happened?"

"Well a few of our members ceased to exist. Like, disappeared straight out of the time-space continuum or something. I dunno. What have you been up to? I hadn't heard from you in a while so I just assumed–"

"No, actually, renewed interest. Lately I'm kind of being viewed as a more pleasant alternative to Krystal. Hey, speaking of."

I don't like where this conversation is headed already.

She keeps going: "Sorry if I'm being kinda forward," awkward pause. "But, uh, are you guys still going out? It's cool if you are, I just wanted to check."

You can always be sure when people are calling to get a piece of your ass. When it starts happening often enough, you'll start to know when people start talking to you just because they want on. Trust me. In light of recent events, though, I'm pretty sure she was inserted here for uh, a romantic interest, or uh, because. Well. Haha. Get it? Inserted?

Anyway, enough of my super stupid faggy internal dialogue. Time to talk. "I think it's safe to say that uh, our relationship is, uh, dissolving slowly in my stomach. Say, Fara, I have a funny question."

"Uh, yeah, sure. Ask away."

And she's probably expecting me to ask her out or something. But I make it a little more strange. "Can you explain to me how sex works? I think I've forgotten."

She snorts. Laughs, even. "Man, I've heard of being suave before, but this is really a whole new level."

I'm dead serious. "No, I'm dead serious," I say. Dead seriously. "I can't remember how it works."

Pause. Silence. "Uh, really? You've really forgotten how?"

"Would you just humor me?"

"Are you getting off to this or something?"

"Fara."

"Okay, okay. When a man and a woman love each other very much they hug in a special way–"

"No, no, more clinically."

She pauses again. If we're talking about awkwardness and cutting through it, somebody hand me an axe. A knife wouldn't do the trick.

"Well," she finally starts. "Vaginal intercourse, which is what I assume you're hinting at, is when the man inserts his penis into the woman's vagina."

Ding dong, bell ringing. "There we go! I thought it had something to do with vaginas."

"Um, yeah. What did you think before?"

"Couldn't tell you. There's no unhinging of jaws, right?"

"Not most of the time."

"Nothing about swallowing people whole?"

"Only if I've been doing it wrong and nobody's said anything to me."

"Good. Okay. Well I'll talk to you later, if you still exist that is," I say, before hanging up on her. The poor girl. She'll need all the luck she can get.

Slip the phone back into my pocket. You know what, I don't know why I'm so worried about this. Krystal will show up again tomorrow, in one piece and relatively not covered with stomach acid. Either with no recollection or pretending to have no recollection. It's the ultimate restart.

Murder means nothing anymore. More importantly, death means nothing anymore. They've been outmoded. Replaced with meaningless sex and meaningless life.

You want me to describe the scenery as I walk home. Every vibration with every footfall. You wait impatiently, flushed with excitement at who I'm going to fuck next. You expect to live vicariously through me, through my dick as it enters yet another blah blah blah blah, yeah, okay. I walk to my apartment. It's not that far from the bar, but only because if I go on for too long about it you'll get bored and click away without leaving a review.

When I open the door, who else is in there but Falco. Lying on my couch, wearing nothing but pink lingerie. The coffee table is covered with gay porn and dildos. Dildos forever. Somehow in the forty-five minutes I was out, the apartment got remodeled into some kind of sex dungeon.

"Hey thailor," Falco lisps entirely out of character, waving at me, "why don't you come over here give me thome sugar?"

Told you.


	4. 4

**What?**

* * *

I know what the kiddies want. They want hard cock and wet pussy. Humping and moaning and grunting and jizz. Free love on the internet. Porn without plot. Voyeurism is the basest of all desires. Everybody likes to watch their heroes having sex. Cheering from the sidelines.

Even if we've been reduced to shells. Even if now we're just porno stars. They still love it.

Once upon a time I had a character. I had a purpose. We all did. We'd fly around in space planes and shoot down nameless apes, attempting to carve ourselves some kind of purpose in the meaningless universe. All I wanted was to get revenge for my father's death and to keep the family business alive. I was the best pilot in the civilized universe. I had two modes of personality: stressed and cocky. All I did was deploy bombs, do barrel rolls, have snarling matches with Star Wolf and occasionally Falco when he got out of hand. And sure, that wasn't a whole lot, but it was who I was supposed to be. I liked it even if nobody else thought it fit. I liked being who I was.

Nobody stayed interested in that for very long. Pretty soon it was all sex. Falling in love. Falling in lust. Fucking each other senseless.

I could see this story ending in multiple ways.

One, I go back to Falco, we have sex. I stick it to him, he sticks it to me too. Orally and anally. No orifice between the two of us left unpenetrated. Then we tell each other that we love each other, and we spend the rest of our lives together like that. Anal sex to the high nines, buried in sodomy. Our friendship having blossomed into romance or something equally as unrealistic.

Ending two is the Fara option. She saves me from the path of Sodom, and I spend the rest of my short existence buried in her cunt. Maybe Falco pulls himself out of his recent revolting development, makes a complete 180, marries Katt Monroe and has lots of babies. Whenever I pull out for a few hours another Fox McCloud Jr. pops out of Fara. It's like that for a few more chapters, her and I deliberating on a name for each one of them, sobbing with happiness. Her in a rocking chair with a kid on each tit, nursing. Later we fuck. The kids grow up. Move out. Fara and I fuck ourselves right into the grave. That's a wrap everybody. Good work.

The third option is this one, which I'm choosing to play out.

I'm standing right here on the balcony, sunlight pouring on me, with a gun pointed to my head. It's me. I'm pointing the gun at my head. Staring at a picture of me and Falco. His arms around my shoulders. We're smiling, him and I. Beer bottles in our hands. We were probably at a party, or a bar. Celebrating something.

This is how it's supposed to be. You like this, too. Character death. It's weird, because most of the attraction to it is non-sexual. Dark drama inserted as an afterthought. You've seen me die for lots of people. I can count at least one for Falco, one for Krystal, one for Wolf. You like to watch your heroes kill themselves for you, too. Over things that rarely even matter.

My theory is that it's validation. Everybody has days where they wish they were dead. Even your heroes. Or it's another cheap gimmick to get the reader's pity. Either/or.

You know, I can't even remember when this picture was taken. I think it was faked. I don't remember going to parties with Falco. I don't remember having anything to celebrate at all with Falco. Everything I do know is inherited knowledge. We won a war, sure, but I don't remember it. I just know that we did. We were best friends, sure, but I don't remember it. I just know that we were.

The only reason I'm looking at this picture is for you. I'm supposed to whisper his name, cry a single tear. "Die with his last name resounding on my breath". Say something like, I just want to be with you again, or I'll see you soon. Depending on how the progression was supposed to play out. But I have no reason to do any of that, so I just suck on the gun instead. Pretend I'm fellating it. And that makes me laugh, under the circumstances.

I really don't want to see him again. If I didn't have to, I wouldn't do any of this again. Krystal's coming back, though. She'll always be around, somewhere where she's being dreamed about. Eventually we'll meet up again and have sex, just like how Falco and I will meet up and have sex. So don't worry, everybody. I'll be back. I'm never going to be away for very long. This is only a temporary abortion. This is just one story.

Describing the action of pulling the trigger is pointless, and making it into a separate paragraph is stupid. I don't know what I'd say. Should I just put it down to simple onomatopoeia or should I go into a lengthy discussion about my brains spraying all over the wall? Doesn't matter. What's done is done. The bullet rushes in and the brains spurt out. It's my final brilliant orgasm. The only orgasm that ever really matters is the last one.

There's no exit, no escaping this. Tomorrow I'll wake up and this will start all over again.

L'enfer, c'est les autres? Sartre only got it half right. Hell is the other people you've fucked.

* * *

_It starts when you're young._

You're raised with these cartoon characters. You buy their merchandise, repeat their catch phrases, pretend to be them when you play with your friends. You look up to them. You idolize them. You fantasize about meeting them in real life. How fun it would be to hang out with Leonardo and Raphael and Michaelangelo and Donatello. Practice archery with Robin Hood. Fly planes with Baloo the Bear. Race against Sonic the Hedgehog, or hang back with Tails and eat chili dogs.

You'd still like to hang out with them, you think. But to do that you'd need to fit in. Be one of them. You like animals. You pick your favorite one, based on who you've been dreaming about. Maybe you'd make a good bear, just like Baloo. Maybe you'd make a good freedom fighter, just like Sally or Amy. A Sonic the Hedgehog recolor. Maybe you're the fifth Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, the forgotten Merry Man whose weaponry skills rival Robin Hood's.

Pretty soon you've got your self-insert.

You hold onto it, never letting go of the fantasy. You've still got the TMNT posters in your room. The old VHS copy of Robin Hood that's been watched countless times. All the Sonic the Hedgehog games, from the humble 64-bit beginnings to the recent clusterfucks for the Wii. Episodes of Talespin taped and backlogged, every one of them. You've still got the idea for the great fanfic. The great epic featuring your original characters, your collection of furry versions of yourself and your friends.

In the night you rolled over onto your boner, and the pressure was so painful you woke in a cold sweat. You were dreaming about something, but you weren't quite sure what. Images, only images. You scan your room in the dark. The posters on the wall solely illuminated by your alarm clock. You listen to the hum of the Gamecube, still running with your copy of Star Fox Adventures in it. The admittedly low-quality drawings of your original characters on the wall. Couldn't you feel Raphael caressing your cheek with his calloused fingers? Wasn't Krystal just on your bed, with a deviant smile and her legs spread invitingly? You could've sworn.

That's how it starts.  
And by the time you're sure of what's happening to you, it's already too late.  
There's no way to undo the damage that's been done.

When we find you at the convention, you haven't showered in days. The sweat trapped in the folds of your fat reek for at least a twenty-foot radius, not to mention the secret diaper you wear all the time now, hoping to find a furry daddy to wipe your excrement off your backside. Hygiene's been neglected for years now, and clusters of acne bloom all over your face. Your shirt clings to you, three wolves howling at a full moon. Your hair's neglected and falling out, pulled back into a ponytail. You walk the halls with a cardboard sign. FREE HUGGLES, it reads. People take you up on it. When you hug them, your fat connects, sticking to each other through your t-shirts. It's a spectacle. A celebration of life so horrifying, it's beautiful.

Your name? Long forgotten. It's Snugglepuppy now. You're a half-husky half-fox with impossibly colored fur. You have one angel wing and one devil wing, one emanating with light and the other seemingly on fire. Constantly decked out in glowsticks and glow-in-the-dark makeup. Furpiles and furmeets, gay orgies and even gayer raves. This is your life now. This is who you are. Forever and ever, and ever, and ever.

Yeah, okay, point taken. Now please pet my bushy tail. :3


End file.
